Reading the Signs
by Rendered Reversed
Summary: !Non-Magic!Arcade!AU! It takes Tom four months to find out the kid's actually a famous rhythm game champion, another month to get his name, and (embarrassingly) another month to figure it out. Harry—with his green eyes and messy hair and round, clunky glasses—is completely, utterly mute. Oneshot, TMR/HP SLASH


**Warnings:** ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - NO MAGIC; MODERN SETTING; ARCADE, crushing, fluff, selective mutism

 **Pairing** : TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)

 **Summary:** He comes every Wednesday for the Wednesday special, stands at the same machine all the way until closing time, and never says a word.

It takes Tom four months to find out the kid's actually a famous rhythm game champion, another month to get his name, and (embarrassingly) another month to figure it out. Harry—with his green eyes and messy hair and round, clunky glasses—is completely, utterly mute.

 **Disclaimer** : Harry Potter series - J.K. Rowling

* * *

He comes every Wednesday for the Wednesday special, stands at the same machine all the way until closing time, and never says a word.

Tom blinks slow, resisting the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes and yawn. He grabs a paper wristband, slips it onto the kid's wrist—so small; what does this kid _eat_?—and presses the two end pieces slathered in adhesive together. Then, like he's being doing for the past dozen of Wednesdays since he's gotten the job at Borgin and Burke's Arcade, says—

"Enjoy. We close at ten today."

Then he points to the laminated sign to his left, which states in big bold Arial font that "From six in the evening to ten at night on Mondays and Wednesdays, unlimited games for a cheap payment of ten pounds!" It's been hanging up for so long that the sign is wrinkled despite the lamination, with smudges of brown on the sides from who-knows-what and folded tape along the edges where it's been taken off and reapplied.

It's about as boring and cheap as a sign _can_ be. Still, like always, the kid smiles patiently, nods in understanding, and leaves Tom to do whatever he does at the counter until the end of his shift. Hell, Tom thinks, the boy probably knows the deal better than _him_ , having been a customer for longer than he's been an employee.

Every Wednesday, without fail, from six in the evening to ten at closing, the boy comes. He can't be much older than fifteen, can't be much younger either. Definitely a student, but university or high school, Tom doesn't know. He's attending the local uni himself, and he's never seen the kid around. But there's several thousand students and only one Tom, so what would he know?

The other minimum wage workers at the arcade know him, too. Never causes any trouble. Doesn't break the machine (though, _has been_ around long enough to report a malfunction or two), and is nice enough despite not being much of a talker. Actually, Tom's pretty sure he's _never_ heard the kid talk. Like, at all.

Which is saying something. Borgin and Burke's isn't the average run down, barely functioning, _why hasn't this closed yet_ arcade. It's _popular_. The locals call it B &B, and people from out of town even make the drive over in order to play. The stock is wide and plentiful, ranging from crane machines to old classics, driving simulations and shooters all the way to Asian rhythm games.

Monday and Wednesday nights are special, what with the no-token wristband deal, and so the crowd that comes in isn't unsubstantial. Often times, there's a queue for the more popular machines, and the one the kid specifically plays at _all the time_ is one of them. It's surprising that he never talks to the other players, even more surprising that they don't really talk to him either, despite socializing among themselves fairly freely.

Everyone knows the kid though, specifically _him_ , even out of all the other regulars. He comes at six sharp, stays until they're locking up. One day, every week, without fail. No one really knows his name.

But when you talk about him, _everyone_ knows who you're talking about.

And it's not out of infamy either, Tom knows, because no one ever insults him or whines about him or complains, even when he stays so long. Actually, the boy might as well be _popular_ among his coworkers—specifically the women. He's heard more than once their wistful sighing over how _amazing_ his eyes are, or how they'd like to run a hand through his hair, or _how_ is his skin so smooth and soft? Would he give them tips if they asked?

Ridiculous bullocks, if someone asked him, but no one has so Tom's not offering an opinion. The kid might be cute, but he's seen better. Honestly, he's _average_. Tom would know, since the university he attends is, though local, a prestigious one with a bunch of rich kids with nothing better to spend their money on than their vanity. Compared to that, the kid's average. No big deal.

…There's a bit of a charm to him though. Tom will admit that much. Whenever he smiles, it's different. Different from the way other people smile. It's soft and friendly, but says so _much_. He's seen it every Wednesday and sometimes, Tom catches himself thinking that smile says more than the hour long lectures he hears in class.

It's wordy, but eloquent. Somehow. Not literally. Figuratively speaking.

So the kid's kind of quirky. So what? Tom turns away and pulls out the second box of wristbands, knowing he'll need them for tonight. Like every Wednesday night. On second thought, he grabs his earphones too since the music is loud and scrambled. If he's going to be forced into listening to sound effects and pop music all night, it'd be on his own terms.

Just another shift at B&B's.

* * *

"We're going to be hosting a Quidditch tournament on Sunday," his manager says.

Tom nods.

"…Do you know what that is?"

"It won't be much different from normal days, would it?" Tom asks carefully. "There'll just be more of a crowd than usual."

His manager wrinkles her nose, a clear indication that she doesn't quite like his answer, but it's not necessarily _wrong_ either. "Well," she begins, "Sort of. It's your first time, isn't it?"

"There have been tournaments before."

"No," she insists, frowning, "Well, yes, but you haven't seen this one yet. Not for _Quidditch_."

"What's the difference?"

Her disbelieving stare is more than mildly insulting. Tom levels her with a patient, unamused look of his own. As a reply, she points out toward the machines and waits for Tom to look.

" _Well_?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at," Tom says after a brief moment. "So what?"

" _Quidditch_ ," she insists again. "Quidditch! You know, the popular rhythm game! _The_ rhythm game. Aren't you looking forward to it?"

"Why would I be?" Tom has never disguised his apathy toward Borgin and Burke's. He's not all too familiar (or interested) in arcade games, which is why the frustrated and baffled look of his manager is all the more confusing.

" _Because_ ," his manager says, dragging out the harsh vowel sound, "he'll be here."

It only takes him a second to figure out who 'he' is. Tom turns around and looks at the machines again, eyes scanning the titles of them instead. Exactly at where he sees the boy usually stand in front of is the large, colorful machine with QUIDDITCH written in bright, bolded font at the top.

"So?"

This time, his manager does little to hide the suspicious glare she shoots him. " _So_ ," she starts carefully, "I thought you'd be interested."

"In him or the game?"

"Do you even have to _ask_ , Riddle?"

"Apparently I do," Tom says, "because I'm still not quite sure I'm following your thought process." He is, though. Undoubtedly, he is. It's so obvious it _hurts_ now, but he doesn't say a word about it. If he doesn't bring it up, maybe she won't either.

A fool's hope, of course.

"I just thought you'd be interested. In him. I mean, Vane and Chang certainly are."

Tom ignores the certainty in her tone when it comes to the topic of his (never claimed and never before hinted at and _totally nonexistent_ ) homosexuality.

"They are. Why would I be?"

"Because _you're_ the one who always insists giving him his wristband when he comes."

Tom freezes. " _I'm_ the only one who gives out wristbands on Wednesdays, until it gets more crowded," he replies carefully. "It just happens that way. Chang's cleaning, Vane's out back on the phone with her boyfriend—" and everyone knows it, too, so Tom's not afraid to say that tid-bit to his manager, "—and when I have a shift with Diggory, he's on the floor checking over the machines. I'm the only one at the counter until I need another hand."

His manager smiles. "Mm. Sure, Riddle. That wasn't defensive at all."

"Of course it wasn't," Tom says, tightly in control of his own tone and posture, "because it was all fact."

Surprisingly, the next jab doesn't come. In fact, his manager appears to have completely dropped the topic like a hot potato, abrupt and clean. Tom goes back to his work and she goes back to making her round of checking in on everyone.

"He's got tiny wrists, doesn't he?"

Tom whirls around. His red-headed manager is grinning at him like a cat that's caught the canary. He has to bite back the _very_ insistent "Shut up, Weasley," that comes to mind.

Ginny Weasley has the audacity to _wink_ at him. " _I_ used to be the one on ' _wristband duty_ ,' you know. Don't worry, Riddle. Your secret—if you're so insistent on making it one—is safe with me."

She's out the door in record time. Tom thinks the slamming sound the drawer makes is very satisfying.

* * *

Sunday comes and, like his manager said, so does he.

Tom should be working. He should be cleaning the counter, because germs are not only gross but rampant when working at an _arcade_. Tom should be doing everything _but_ just standing there and watching the ongoing tournament.

But he still does anyway.

The pop music is loud and booming in the arcade, not much different from usual but somehow it is all the same—it's as if they turned up the volume for the express purpose of the tournament. Bodies are crowded around the machine like a pack of mutts waiting for a bowl of food, but there's a bit of an elevation to the machine and thank _god_ there are chairs, because that means everyone's mostly sitting down and Tom still has a view.

…The kid is good. Great, apparently. No, _amazing_.

His hands are moving across the touch screen like a pianist and their keys. Sometimes his fingers cross one over the other, sometimes his hands do. Tom thinks it looks a lot like a spider walk, elegant and spindly and smooth. He's seen the kid's hands before up close, every single time he puts on the wristband, but somehow only _now_ does he notice that his fingers are as long as his wrists are tiny.

It's weird and makes his mouth a bit dry.

The kid shakes hands with his opponent at the end of the match. Tom can't see if words are exchanged, but he assumes so because the bloke he _can_ see moves his lips. "Good game," he says, apparently, and that's what he reads at the end of every other match.

Time flies by. Tom half pays attention to the customers and gives the other half of his attention to the boy.

The other players respect him. Tom notices this immediately. It's the look in their eyes as they speak to him, or the semi-excited shy way they rush through some of their words. Even the taller participants look at him with great respect, somehow making the fact that they're looking _down_ at him when they shake hands the exact opposite of belittling.

Everyone notices him. Everyone makes way for him. His seat is in the front row. Some of the players glance at him fairly often, like when the person playing makes a mistake or pulls off a difficult combo.

The boy wins.

He can't hear the name that's announced—a shame, but that's what happens in an arcade—but Tom _does_ hear the words 'again' and 'winner' and 'champion'.

…It figures.

* * *

B&B's isn't just popular among the university students and high school kids because of its wide selection and cheap prices. It's also got a delicious food bar. Very few co-workers bring food from home—the exception being those that _can't_ afford to _not_ make their own food—and that's solely because of Honeyduke's.

Tom, on his fifteen minute break, roams over to buy dinner. He's usually one of the workers who bring their own, but occasionally he does treat himself to some bangers and mash or shepherd's pie. Honeyduke's comfort food is both fairly cheap (being, of course, attached to the arcade) and perfect on cold nights.

So, it isn't surprising that there's a line.

Tom lines up, taking out his phone to do a quick check up on things. There's a message group for one of his study groups that's been naturally pretty active due to exams being a week away, and the date for their next meeting should be up soon. If it lands on one of his shifts, he'll either have to 'convince' them to move it, or trade with someone.

The former is comparably easier, though troublesome on its own right. Tom is, after all, one of the key members in the group. He's got the undisputed highest grades in the class. If he says he's busy, they'll _have_ to change it.

Movement next to his feet makes him stop. He bends down, picks up the card, and takes a brief second to take in the information.

 _Harry Potter_ , it says. The picture is of the boy. The kid. Yes, _that one_.

Tom looks up. _Harry_ is, coincidentally, the person who's right in front of him, smiling a familiar sheepish smile. In his hand is a ratty old wallet, torn and peeling, but obviously well-used and well-loved. Wordlessly, Tom hands over the ID.

 _Thanks_ , Harry's beaming grin seems to say. His eyes say it too, Tom realizes.

"I didn't realize you ate here," Tom comments thoughtlessly, "You're usually glued to the machine."

A breath of laughter leaves Harry's nose, but no sound. The boy shrugs in a, _well, what can you do when you're hungry_ manner, and before the conversation can continue or end on a mutual note, it's Harry's turn to order and so he turns around away from Tom, away from words, and away from really answering.

Tom doesn't think much of it. He goes back to his phone, thinking _Harry Potter_ ; _that suits him somehow_ , and tries in vain to catch up with his recent messages. He reads them, sure, but it takes five seconds before he has to go back and read them again.

So focused is he, that he doesn't hear a lick of what Harry orders. When an order of, "Fish and chips with a slice of treacle tart!" comes out before his own order of shepherd's pie, Tom is genuinely surprised.

 _Harry Potter_ , Tom thinks. _Too ordinary of a name for him, but I've got no right to say that, I suppose._ His name is Tom, after all. Plain, plebian, _average_ "Tom".

The boy with the green eyes, messy hair, clunky glasses and smile that says a thousand words becomes Harry in his head, just like that.

* * *

Tom is on his way to the grocery store in the evening—the _best and only_ time to go buy groceries; no lines!—when he sees him again. Outside of the usual setting of the arcade, it's pretty odd to see Harry, but Harry is a person too so he supposes that makes sense.

What _doesn't_ make sense is Harry is running.

Tom blinks as he approaches, across the street on the sidewalk running parallel to Tom. When Harry's close enough, he notices with a start that the look on his face is not…well, not the normal one.

Not the smiling one. Not the sheepish one. Not the sympathetic one or the happy one or the excited one, or the one that says _that guy's an asshole, sorry_ or _hope you're having a good day_ or _doesn't your co-worker have a boyfriend_? None of those. None of what Tom's familiar with.

The look on Harry's face is panicked and _scared_.

He looks for what Harry's running from. Down the street is a group of bulky teenagers chasing after him. They don't appear to be part of a gang or carrying any real weapons, but there's more of them than there is of Harry, so Tom thinks the decision to run is pretty smart.

Well, that _is_ if one can get away, of course.

Tom thinks he knows where Harry is going. There's not many people on this particular street at the time, but there should be more people several blocks down in a shopping center. However, _getting_ there without the group catching up is…well, it might not happen. Traffic lights exist for a reason, and they can't _all_ be red.

Tom starts walking again. His pace is faster this time, and his direction isn't toward the grocery store. Instead, he takes a shortcut that involves several walls and a fence to find himself in an alleyway, then leans against the brick wall of a building to wait.

Harry comes running down the street in two minutes. Before he passes him, Tom reaches out and grabs him by the arm, tugging him into the alleyway and putting a hand over his mouth before he can scream.

However, Harry is surprisingly strong. Tom does not expect him to be strong enough to yank his arm away to spin around and look at him. Of course, he hadn't exactly put much force behind it—his aim hadn't been to _hurt him_ , after all—but still.

Harry's eyes flash with recognition, accompanied by confusion. Tom just grabs his wrist and pulls him down the alley.

"Can you climb the fence?"

Harry nods, climbs it first and waits for Tom to drop down. He does so, just in time because the sound of heavy footsteps is almost at the entrance to their hiding spot.

Tom is taller than Harry. He takes advantage of the fact by pulling him into some sort of pseudo-hug, holding him very still with his back leaning against the fence to give the illusion that he's alone. The bullies stop, look into the alley, and on seeing that Harry isn't there—Tom's wearing different clothes and is a head taller, after all—they continue to run down the street.

 _Safe._

Tom lets Harry go. He's greeted with a tiny confused stare and thankful smile.

"You're lucky I recognized you running across the street."

Harry scratches his head sheepishly.

"What did you do to them, anyway? Kick their dogs and explode their aunts?"

The boy shrugs. Tom stares.

"Don't I get a 'thank you'?"

This time, Harry looks startled. Then he looks embarrassed. Then he bites his lip like he's holding back a laugh, and now Tom simply can't take it anymore.

" _What_?"

Harry points to his throat, rubbing it as if its sore to get a point across. His hand comes up to make a pinching motion across his mouth, and only then does Tom get the message.

"You're…mute," he says slowly, sure but not sure.

Harry looks nervous. Tom recognizes it as a look that says _there's more to it than that_ , but it's erased when Harry decides to nod instead.

"Oh."

It honestly explains a lot. No wonder he's never heard Harry talk. In fact, Tom wonders why he hasn't figured it all out sooner. And it's kind of embarrassing that he hasn't.

…Okay, a _lot_ embarrassing.

"Do you know sign language?"

Just to show him, Harry signs 'yes', but then sends him a knowing look that clearly says _but you don't_. That makes sense, too. Harry's consequential smile is a hopeless attempt at comforting him.

It takes Tom _four months_ to find out the kid's actually a famous rhythm game champion, _another_ month to get his name, and (embarrassingly) another month to figure it all out.

Harry—with his green eyes and messy hair and round, clunky glasses—is completely, utterly mute.

* * *

Nothing changes. Not really. Harry still comes every Wednesday; Tom is always there to take his ten pounds and give him an obnoxious neon green wristband.

But things, as they always do, shift with the flow of time. None of his co-workers mention the sign language books they see Tom reading during the slow hours—though certainly enough smiles go around to ensure it's really not a secret—and occasionally, when Tom seeks to treat himself to Honeyduke's, Harry can be seen with him at the same table. Tom talks, Harry writes, though the latter does make a few signs when Tom asks for translation.

They're an unusual pair.

Tom finds out Harry is actually eighteen, to be attending the same university as Tom the next semester. He'll be majoring in music, specifically for music education, which explains why he's so good at rhythm games. Harry plays several instruments, though his favorite is the piano. His goal is to become a music teacher.

Tom doesn't ask how he'll do that if he's mute. Tom doesn't ask for details on a lot of things—mostly pertaining to Harry's disability. If Harry wants to tell him, he'll tell him.

It's no more than a feeling, but a feeling is enough—being mute is a sensitive topic for Harry, so he doesn't ask and gets the feeling that Harry's thankful for it.

Tom learns that Harry has trouble dealing with people. It's a bit of a surprise, to be honest, since he's always so friendly with Tom, but it's the truth. Harry doesn't like looking at people in the eyes. Harry doesn't really like looking at people at all, and when he does he'll catch himself, turning away to redirect his gaze elsewhere.

Tom asks about the tournaments. How he got started, why he continues, why he likes it. Admittedly, their situation is pretty ridiculous. _Tom_ shouldn't be the one asking questions, since he's the one who can actually speak. Harry's got to write it all down since only one of them is decent at sign language, and writing is tedious by itself. There would be reason enough for Harry to omit details just because it's too much to write.

But he doesn't. Tom learns to decipher Harry's terrible slanted scrawl, Harry grows accustomed to having impromptu sign language lessons while Tom reads his answer.

Harry likes rhythm games because he's good at them, because they're fun, because they're different and similar to real life instruments all at once. Moving his fingers along the pre-defined notes is exhilarating. Not missing a beat is a challenge. Competition, Harry writes, is surprisingly fun. Rhythm games taught him how to be competitive, brought out his fighting spirit. He's not scared when he's playing, even surrounded by so many people.

It's like everything fades into the background, and for the first time he knows what confidence means.

When Tom is better at sign language, he finally decides to ask the question he's been sitting on for awhile.

 _"Why me?"_ he signs.

It's a valid question. Out of all the employees at Borgin and Burke's, Harry is only friendly around three of them. One of them is Tom. The other two, Ginny Weasley and Cedric Diggory, make _some_ sense. Whenever a machine is broken, Diggory is the one who fixes it. Weasley used to have Tom's job.

All of that makes sense. Except for Tom.

Tom hasn't been here as long as Weasley. Tom doesn't do anything like Diggory; just gives him his wristband every Wednesday. There's absolutely zero reason for Harry to be friendly with Tom when it appears like he's completely unable to around any other person. In fact, Tom's tempted to hold a social experiment and make _Chang_ give Harry his wristband one day, but a part of him is against it because Chang is interested and Harry _is not_.

It would be like feeding a poor defenseless lamb to a wolf. The only reason why Tom thinks about it _at all_ is because Chang isn't Vane, and can at least restrain herself for all of the thirty seconds it takes for the exchange to happen.

Harry's answer comes slow and deliberate.

" _I don't know_."

Tom blinks. " _…Pardon?"_

Harry shrugs. " _I looked up to you, I guess."_

" _…You looked up to a minimum wage university student working in an arcade."_

 _"You're strong,"_ Harry signs. _"You're everything I'm not. But you're not like everyone else, either. I think you're a good person, Tom."_

" _I don't think I'm as good of a person you make me out to be, Harry."_

Harry shrugs again. _"Being good doesn't mean you're right. Being good doesn't mean you've never been bad, either. I think you're nice. I'll keep thinking you're nice, too. Don't try to change my mind."_

Tom stares at him for a moment before his hands begin to sign again. _"I'm not very friendly."_

 _"You're friendly enough to me."_

 _"If I could find a job literally anywhere else that was as flexible with their hours, I would take it."_

 _"Most people would, yeah."_

 _"I take advantage of people."_

 _"Everyone does."_

Tom pauses. _"You don't know me."_

 _"I know the you who you've shown me. And if that's not a part of you, then I'll throw my next tournament."_

Harry looks so indignant that Tom can't help but fold. He's got him beat, at least for now—that boy with the damn green eyes and messy hair and clunky glasses. It's stupid. They're both stupid. Harry is more.

 _"You're strong_ ," Harry signs again. " _Not like me. If I was as half as strong as you, I…"_

When Harry doesn't finish, Tom makes his own decision. _"I'll let you leech off me,"_ he replies. _"Take all the strength you want. I've plenty, according to you."_

The smile he gets in return, Tom can't describe. But it makes his chest warm and palms sweaty, and he has to force himself not to look away because it might be the only smile of its kind he'll ever get. It's that sort of rare, coming from Harry, and it's the sort that not even _he_ can read.

Maybe he just doesn't want to.

…Yeah, it's probably that.

* * *

Tom runs into Harry at the grocery store.

Well, 'running into' is relative. What really happens is Tom sees him after coming out of the drinks aisle, looking at the milk trying to decide on one.

Tom's feeling a bit mean. They're close enough by now that Harry doesn't really bat an eyelash to Tom's chronic mean streaks, accepting the teasing with a good natured shove or witty remark of his own. It's good to know Harry isn't fragile, just uncomfortable in most situations. Tom's rather glad he doesn't have to share him with the likes of Weasley or Chang.

So, he doesn't hesitate in sneaking up behind Harry and breathing out a deep, creepy, " _Hello_."

Harry jumps like a gun just went off next to his ear, letting out a high pitched yelp. At first, Tom finds this funny, but when his friend turns around with a terrified look on his face, the guilt swoops in quick. It heightens when, upon seeing Tom, Harry's terrified expression melts into one of abrupt thankful relief, and then the younger boy is molding himself into Tom's side like a newborn kitten.

It's cute. It also makes Tom feel worse.

"Sorry," he says, genuinely regretful. "I didn't think I'd scare you that much."

Harry sniffs, but nods a moment later to tell Tom that he's forgiven. He doesn't yet let go though, so Tom—unused to giving comfort but still aware of when it's necessary to do so—wraps an arm around him and gently rubs his back in what he assumes is a comforting manner.

Well, it looks like it works. Harry lets go, but stays close. Tom finds he doesn't really mind.

They end up grocery shopping together.

The amount of times they're mistaken for a couple…well. Actually, let's just leave it labeled as an 'interesting experience'. Tom prefers that instead of thinking about the implications of one, more people making assumptions about his sexuality, and two, the idea that he and Harry look natural standing so close to each other.

He idly wonders what it'd be like to hold Harry's hand, thinking about thin wrists and long fingers accustomed to the meticulous exercise of piano drills.

* * *

They start running into each other more often. So often, in fact, that Tom and Harry both decide it's just more convenient to do their errands together. One car, four hands, and one of them can speak. Nice.

Tom is _this_ close to convincing himself that everything is normal and Harry is _not_ the cutest thing ever to grace the world—when it happens.

A hesitant tug at his sleeve. A surprisingly determined face. Red cheeks. Nervous glance. Swallow.

"T-Tom?" Harry's voice is quiet.

Ah, Tom thinks.

He's doomed.

* * *

 **wow where are all these oneshots coming from?! they're all stupid trash but i approve of the image of productivity n_nv**

 **I hope you enjoy being spoiled with all this fluff. And stuff.**

 **My sincerest apologies if I've misrepresented selective mutism in some way, shape, or form; I have no one in my immediate circle who has the disorder to properly base it off of. My research (aka googling) is what lead to the way I represented it in the fic.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **R.R.**


End file.
